A cluster of twenty tourists huddled near the canal. Some had umbrellas. Curt Dickes stood in the middle of them, or Serena assumed it was Curt. He was dressed in a skeleton costume that included a skull mask covering his face and a top hat at a jaunty angle on his head. In his left hand, he clutched a plastic sickle that was taller than he was.

‘Do you hear that?’ Curt shouted.

He had a microphone under his mask, because his voice was amplified, and he used an echo effect that repeated his last words. Do you hear that that that that?

‘That’s not the wind. Oh, no. That’s the scream of Lars Olson. His ghost never leaves the bridge, and on nights like this one, you can hear him pleading for mercy. Who’s Lars Olson, you may ask? He was the ex-chancellor of UMD. He died a horrific death at this very spot. Someone tied a rope around his neck and hooked him to the span, so that when the bridge went up . . .’

Curt put a bony fist near his neck and tugged sharply, letting his head dangle sideways.

‘He was hanged hanged hanged hanged hanged.’

One of the children in the group of tourists gasped. ‘Did that really happen?’

‘All of my stories are true!’ Curt announced. ‘You can run, but you can’t escape the dead dead dead dead dead.’

Maggie waded into the crowd. ‘Oh, give me a break, Curt.’

Curt spotted Maggie and Serena, and the skeleton froze in place. With a flourish, he removed his top hat and gave them a deep bow. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the lovely Maggie Bei and Serena Dial, two of Duluth’s finest, dedicated to keeping tourists like yourselves safe from the criminal underworld. Ms. Bei, Ms. Dial, have you decided to join our happy group to hear more absolutely true tales of ghosts in the Zenith City? Tickets are just twenty-five dollars each, payable in cash only, no refunds.’

‘Lars Olson was a character in an Ellen Hart novel,’ Maggie announced. ‘She killed him off by hanging him from the lift bridge at the beginning of This Little Piggy Went to Murder.’

Curt scratched the top of his head with his sickle and offered a nervous giggle. ‘Well, sometimes fiction is stranger than truth, you know. I mean, stories do come to me second-hand from time to time.’

A restless murmur rippled through the crowd.

‘What about the ghost of the marathon runner?’ a woman asked. ‘Was that one true?’

‘Totally true!’ Curt assured them. ‘I’ve seen him myself.’

‘Marathon runner?’ Serena asked.